Proud of Your Boy
by Keitorin Asthore
Summary: Harry wonders...are his parents proud of him? Oneshot. COMPLETE.


Proud of your boy

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, not me.

Inspired by the song "Proud of Your Boy" originally written for the movie Aladdin

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"Oi! Harry! Wake up!"

Harry blinked blearily. "Whazzit, Ron?" he mumbled, his voice thick from sleep and his eyes blurry without his glasses.

"It's my birthday!" Ron cheered. "Isn't it great?"

"It'd be great if you let me _sleep_, Ron," Harry grumbled, but he got out of bed.

"So what'd you get me?" Ron asked. "I know you and Hermione got me _something_-"

"Can't we give it to you later?" Harry yawned. "Like after I'm awake?"

Ron was sifting through a pile of packages at the foot of his bed. "Let's see…that's from the twins; I can tell a magic prank a mile away…that'd be from Ginny, all she ever gives is candy…and this is from Mum!"

He pulled out a package wrapped in dark blue paper. Ron ripped it off, revealing a photo album. "Can't the woman remember anything?" he complained, a tone of longsuffering love in his tone. "Maroon! I hate maroon!" But he opened the book. Harry leaned over his shoulder to look at the inside cover.

Molly had written a letter, a long letter that began with "To my youngest son." Harry skimmed it briefly. Words like "brave" and "clever" and "love" popped off the page with startling clarity. And the worst word of all. "Proud."

_I'm proud of you, Ron_, Molly had written. _You're stubborn and occasionally troublemaking, but you are my son, and I love you dearly._

Ron's slightly exasperated expression had slowly softened into a lopsided smile. He didn't even notice when Harry left the room. The green-eyed boy barely noticed himself. It hadn't been a conscious decision; he simply had to get away.

His parents were mere memories. Harry had been exactly fifteen months old when they were killed. He was just a baby, old enough to babble "Mumma" and "Da" and laugh when his father pulled faces or cry when his mother left the room.

His hazy memories consisted of a few faint glimpses. A young wiry man who would throw him in the air and catch him carefully, laughter glinting in the hazel eyes behind his glasses. A young woman with soft green eyes that laughed and smiled and softened at the sight of her beloved little son.

As Harry grew older he lost his grip on his parents. Sometimes in his sleep he saw gentle green eyes watching him, or sensed a strong, protective gaze that he instinctively knew came from hazel eyes, but when he woke it vanished. He slugged his way through his childhood. He went off to his first day of kindergarten, he lost his first tooth, he got in his first fight, he got his first crush. And his parents were never there to see it. Mother's Day and Father's Day were horrible nightmares for little Harry: the only child in his class to sit alone at his tiny desk while the other children received hugs and kisses and praise for their hand-scribbled cards and gluey macaroni art.

No one ever told him what his parents were like. Once, when he was little more than six, he begged his aunt to tell him about them.

"Your father's name was James," Aunt Petunia had admitted stiffly, not looking her small nephew in the eye. "And your mother…your mother was Lily."

That was Harry's lifeline. That was his security. That was his lullaby. Many times he fell asleep sing-songing their beloved names under his breath.

"James and Lily," he would sing softly, his childish voice sweet and high. "James and Lily, my daddy is James and my mummy is Lily."

Often he dreamed about them. Their dream figures were more real to him than anything else. James was never loud and red-faced and fat like Uncle Vernon, and Lily was never scrawny and long-necked and cold like Aunt Petunia, and there was never any Dudley. His dreams were lovely; Harry lived for the moment he could fall asleep in the musty safety of his cupboard.

But it would never be real. His parents were dead and gone. But they sacrificed themselves to save him. Especially his mother. Beautiful, sparkling Lily Potter, who was given a chance to flee and instead chose to spread her arms out wide, shielding her tiny son from the madman bent on killing the both of them.

It was a little difficult to fathom…a girl willing to die for her child.

And now that child was nearly sixteen, and what did he have to show for the past fifteen years?

Harry still didn't know where he was going. He just wanted out- out where he could stare at the sky and get lost in its colors and forget everything.

He knew he hadn't been the sort of child his parents could be proud of.

"Look at 'im! Spittin' image of 'is father, he is!"

"Oh, my, Harry, you have your mother's eyes."

"You're much like your father had been at your age."

"Harry, you're just like your mother."

He wasn't like them. His parents had been brave, noble people. They hadn't spent the better part of a year moping and shouting and generally being insufferable to everyone they met. James and Lily were pillars of the wizarding world, names that were whispered in reverence and admiration.

But no, he was _Harry _Potter. The angsty whining prat, who occasionally did something stupid that everyone called noble.

He didn't deserve to be the child of James and Lily Potter.

But oh, how he wished he did.

All he wanted was to be a child. A normal, easygoing, laughing child who could ride on his father's back and sleep with his head on his mother's shoulder.

But he couldn't be a child. He hadn't been a child for years and years.

Harry's life had fallen apart so many times he no longer desired to pick up the pieces. They were shattered beyond recognition, leaving him with only bleeding fingers to show for his desperate attempts.

He'd almost gotten the pieces back together when the final stroke hit. Sirius was dead. His last link to James and Lily, his last bit of family, his last scrap of hope, had died with him. Now it was all Harry could think of. It was nearly a year ago, and yet it filled his thoughts and his dreams and his nightmares.

_My father wouldn't have dwelled on it_, he though frantically to himself. _My mother would have moved on_.

And yet he couldn't.

So here was, hollow-eyed and empty, looking for the single thing that could make him happy again- to know his parents were proud of him. But it was always just a little further than his bloodied fingers could reach.

Ron had a family. The Weasley clan, all alike in almost every way. So close-knit. Molly knew where any of her children where at any given time. Her six sons and her daughter fussed about her protectiveness but thrived under it all the same.

Hermione had a family. The Doctors Granger, both so hopelessly confused about the magical world, so far removed from the prosaic reality of dentistry. Yet they loved their daughter and supported her.

Everyone he knew had someone. Luna had her father, Pavarti had her sister, Colin had his brother. Even Draco Malfoy had a family, a set of parents that no matter how evil they were, they cared for him.

And here was Harry Potter. Left alone. He didn't even have his godfather anymore.

Maybe he just wasn't supposed to have family. Maybe he was cursed. Maybe he was destined for a life of wandering blindly watching the rest of the world grow up and marry and flourish in their families.

The Potters had just been a little family. A father, a mother, a child. So simple. But nothing was clear anymore. Not at all.

_All I want…is to know they're proud of me._

He was drowning in thoughts, lost in a mindless whirlpool of his own creating. It took a touch, a warm human touch, to bring him out.

"Harry," a voice whispered, sweet and gentle. "What's wrong, my Harry James?"

He roused slightly, looking up into the delicate face that was so strange and so familiar all at once. A thousand words came to mind, but all he could blurt out was-

"I'm not good enough."

She smoothed her slender fingers through his messy hair. "Good enough for what, love?"

The thoughts were crystallizing into razor-sharp sentences. "Good enough for everything. For this whole hero-business. For everyone who counts on me. For you and Da." Tears were burning behind his eyes, but Harry fought them. "I don't want to be a savior. I want to be a child. I want to be _your _child."

"Ah, love," she sighed. The slim arms twined around his scrawny body, drawing him into an embrace that he had forgotten. "You are my child. You will always be my child." She stroked her hand along the smooth contour of his cheek, cradling him as though he was no older than four. "Harry, your daddy and I will always be proud of you," she whispered into his ear. "You are our son, and it is for that sole reason that we will love you forever."

"But I want to make you proud of me," he wailed, his voice muffled in her soft shoulder.

Soft kisses pressed against his cheeks and lips and eyes and hair. "Then be determined, my little boy, be determined to grow into a strong man." The beautiful green eyes were wet as a final kiss was pressed on his forehead, directly on the scar. "But even when you're a man, my Harry, you will be my little boy, and I will be proud of you."

"Harry?"

He blinked.

"Harry, did you fall asleep out here?"

He stared up at Luna. She stared back at him, head cocked quizzically and blue eyes questioning. Harry smiled. "Just for a little bit." He took the small hand she offered and stood off, shivering in the chill of the March morning.

"You'd better get to the hall soon, or you'll miss breakfast," Luna said. She kept walking, but Harry paused, his mind too full of happy dreams to think of something as practical as breakfast.

"Luna," he said. "Do you think…do you ever wonder if your mother is proud of you?"

Luna paused. Her long soft hair made a sweet veil for the morning winds to play with. "I do," she said softly. "Every day, but somehow…somehow I know she is." She took his warm hand. "Are you thinking about your parents? Do you wonder if they're proud of you?"

Harry smiled at her, a real smile for the first time in nearly a year, a smile that made his green eyes dance in a way that made everyone remember a laughing redheaded girl. "I used to," he said softly. "But I don't wonder anymore."

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**Author's Note**

Wow…I just made myself cry…hold on, I can't see the screen 'cause it's all blurry…

Anyways, this whole story was thought up, written, and posted in one day. I found the song "Proud of Your Boy" on the internet, and boy, did it tug my heartstrings. I didn't hear the Clay Aiken version; it's the original concept song. It was cut from the movie Aladdin- they used a reprise of "One Jump Ahead" instead- but it's so beautiful and bittersweet.


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